


Of Hummingbirds and Albatross

by BabyHoldMyFlower



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comfort Sex, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Just Wants To Be Loved (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Other, Skin Hunger, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21600817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyHoldMyFlower/pseuds/BabyHoldMyFlower
Summary: How do you tell a person you want to press your foreheads together and feather kisses along their hairline? How do you tell a person you want to watch them arch their neck as you take them into your mouth, or feel their fingers in your hair as you suck kisses into their soft belly? He doesn’t feel like that’s a thing you tell your best friend after 6,000 years. He’d like to shrug it off. Can’t. He’s trying too hard to keep from snapping his fingers and miracling away all of Aziraphale’s clothes in one fell swoop so that he’s naked and glowing in the soft light.OrCrowley is starting to fall apart after Armageddon and needs someone to hold him together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands - Relationship
Comments: 104
Kudos: 807
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Of Hummingbirds and Albatross

Crowley is good at his job, he’s rather pleased to admit. He’s had a bit of fun here and there--gluing coins to sidewalks and such--but in the end he really is good at it. He had come to terms with it a long time ago, despite his pesky moral compass, and had learned to be satisfied with the role God had saddled him with. It’s not inherently glamorous (although Crowley does his best to make it so, and does a bang up job if he does say so himself; no animals on his head for starters) and working for hell, being a demon at all, is actually quite painful when you really come down to it, but that’s the nature of the job. Crowley is just another cog in the machine. A rather shiny, stylish, and well functioning cog, maybe, but a cog nonetheless. So doing his job doesn’t feel like a  _ sin  _ perse… more of a… lifestyle. A lifestyle that happens to bring about the suffering of others. He’s been at this for a good, long while, after all, and he wants to make the most of himself. He likes the satisfaction of a job well done. He likes the praise. And he’s  _ good at it _ , bless it all to heaven, he is. He’s creative and sexy,--a  _ walking temptation _ , sex on a stick, he likes to think--at this point it wouldn’t surprise him if he could damn a soul straight to hell with nothing more than a snap of his fingers. But, even so. A cog. In  _ the great ineffable plan _ . So it doesn’t fuss him too much when he goes a bit soft. A lot soft. More of a puddle really. He can afford to be a bit puddley. 

That doesn’t stop it from hurting. 

Which brings him to his current predicament. At present, Crowley is sprawled haphazardly across the couch in the back of Aziraphale’s bookshop, and is absolutely  _ aching _ with it. Sitting across from him, Aziraphale makes an incredibly pretty picture. Not just pretty,  _ handsome _ . Crowley is a firm believer in genderless beauty, but he can’t deny the quiet masculinity that rests over Aziraphale. Oh, he’s flamboyant, to be sure, but when you catch him alone like this, calm and in his element, the dithering and the nervous energy tends to fall away a bit. He is sat comfortably in his chair, animatedly explaining the brilliance of Greek mythology (now that he isn’t really an angel anymore and feels he is able). A bit sedentary. A bit soft. A lot soft. It’s lovely. He’s so sure of himself like this. Crowley wants to lay him out like a feast. He wants to lay his angel out on the bed, or the floor, or even the couch, he could miracle up more room, and worship him like he’s the almighty Herself. He keeps this to himself, not only because Aziraphale still can’t stomach blasphemy, but because after all this time he doesn’t know how he would say such a thing. 

How do you tell a person you want to press your foreheads together and feather kisses along their hairline? How do you tell a person you want to watch them arch their neck as you take them into your mouth, or feel their fingers in your hair as you suck kisses into their soft belly? He doesn’t feel like that’s a thing you tell your best friend after 6,000 years. He’d like to shrug it off. Can’t. He’s trying too hard to keep from snapping his fingers and miracling away all of Aziraphale’s clothes in one fell swoop so that he’s naked and glowing in the soft light.  _ The light is really very soft. Soft enough that it doesn’t hurt to take off his glasses. Soft enough that Aziraphale doesn’t have to do more than glance pleadingly into the dark lenses before they’re set on the coffee table. Crowley would do anything for those eyes. He needs to stop melting.  _

He does his best to sit up a little straighter and tune back into Aziraphale’s happy ranting. “...And really, dear boy, you can’t deny the sheer inspiration behind Athens. I have to admit, in the least sacrilegious way possible, that if Athena did exist I would,” he takes that moment to look at Crowley a little more closely then, to see if he understands the weight of Athena’s influence on modern society and Aziraphale’s hopeless wish to meet her, or possibly become her, _ or possibly worship her, though he’ll never tell,  _ when he sees Crowley’s dazed expression. “Dear, are you quite alright?”

Crowley makes an effort to focus a little harder. “Ngh? Oh, yeah, of course, angel. Just thinking…” He tries to come up with something to be thinking. 

Aziraphale sighs in experienced exasperation and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling before responding, “What is it, now?”

Crowley gives a little wiggly flop and continues, “Well it's just albatrosses, that’s all. Albatrosses? Albatrie? Is albatross already plural? Like moose?” He gives a loose shrug. They’re both a bit drunk. “Well anyway, I was just thinking, albatrosses can fly their entire lives, right? And that’s what they’re known for. And, kids these days, angel, they’re calling themselves albatrosses to say, “Hey, free as a bird, can’t pin me down!” ‘n it’s stupid is the thing.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. Crowley wants to lick it. “Stupid?”

Crowley nods vehemently. “‘S stupid because albatrosses mate for life. Just because your moving doesn’t mean you can’t be moving around with another albatross. Makes no sense. Stupid.”

An indulgent look takes over Aziraphale’s face and he nods, trying hard to conceal the quirk of his lips, because he’s nice like that. Crowley would have smirked outright, even if it was to conceal his raging adoration with something less like putty. “Well surely they have to stop to mate? Even if it’s just for a short while?”

Crowley lets loose another flop that could be interpreted as general assent. “Suppose. Couldn’t say. Don’t know that much about albatrosses.” He thinks about laying down properly on the couch but finds he can’t bear the thought of laying his head somewhere that isn’t Aziraphale’s lap right now. And that’s just the thing. He wants to worship Aziraphale. Quietly. Reverently. Wants to hear his breath catch and feel his fingers tighten in his hair.  _ He’s kept it long in vain hope of this, with the exception of cutting it short for Armageddon. For war. For losing him. He’s so desperately grateful that he didn’t lose him.  _ But even more he wants Aziraphale to do those things to him. He wants to be held down by sure hands while Aziraphale teases him. He wants to feel broad sweeps of those competent hands down his sides, back, stomach, thighs. He wants Aziraphale’s hand on the back of his neck. Gently. Just resting there, reminding him to breathe. He wants to be able to melt properly, knowing someone will be there to hold him together. For once in his endless existence he just wants to be able to hand someone a needle and thread and say, _ “I’m going to fall to pieces now, and I’d appreciate it if you stitched me back up once I’m through.” _

He is so very, very drunk.

Drunk enough that he thinks the pain of it must show on his face a bit before he quickly covers it up again. He tries for a suggestive eyebrow raise, “But what was it you said you wanted to do to Athena, now?”

He’s been caught. He knows he has when Aziraphale doesn’t scoff at him, or make any amusing sputtering noises of protest. He knows because Aziraphale is looking at him far too tentatively for comfort. His head cocked slightly, his eyes sad. He feels like he’s sure the bird they found on the pavement of Saint James’ Park must have felt after falling out of a tree. Aziraphale had been so worried. _ “Do you think it’s hurt? Should we pick it up? Wait, no, no, I saw a documentary about this and the mother won’t even touch a chick with a human’s scent on it. Does this apply to angels? I’d imagine it applies to demons for certain if it already applies to humans. Does the distinction matter?” _ Crowley had been so distracted by Aziraphale’s fretful clinging to his arm that it took him an embarrassingly long time to snap his fingers and return the chick to its nest. After that it still took several minutes of reassuring to convince Aziraphale that,  _ “Of course it was alright, angel, and if it hadn’t been it would have fixed it up for you, right as rain, see? Why are you asking me, anyway? You can answer these questions yourself by just focusing your ‘ethereal powers’ enough to check on it.”  _ That had been a good day. They’d gone out to eat at a little restaurant he had been wanting to show Aziraphale for a while: French, with rich sauces and plants on all the windowsills. And it took Aziraphale a long while to remember to let go of his arm. They spent most of their walk like that. 

Aziraphale ignores his question completely and gets up from the chair. For a wild moment Crowley thinks he’s going to come over, but instead he heads out of the room to the kitchen, “Cocoa, dear?” 

Normally he’d say no, but he needs something to do with his hands that doesn’t involve alcohol. He’d sober up a bit but he doesn’t want Aziraphale to get suspicious at the full wine bottles. Then he’d probably think that was a sign that Crowley was ready to go back to his flat, and Crowley would rather cut off his arm than leave right now. 

Sometimes he’d pretend to fall asleep on the couch so that he could stay a couple more hours in Aziraphale’s presence. Once, after performing one of the rare temptations that he actually minded, _ too much death, too many children,  _ he had stayed like that for an entire week. Aziraphale had kissed his forehead, once, and the pillows smelled like him, and Aziraphale had kept up a rotation of warm tea, his favorite, he could smell it, for if he ever woke up. 

Carrying the tray holding their cocoa carefully, Aziraphale walks gingerly to his side of the couch,  _ he’s always extra careful not to spill when he’s tipsy,  _ and, to Crowley’s amazement, sits down next to him. “Here you are,” he declares with a brilliant smile,  _ still concerned for him, it doesn’t reach his eyes all the way, _ and hands Crowley his mug. It’s warm, and their fingers brush, and Crowley can’t help but readjust subtly so that their knees are pressed together. He stays that way, holding the cocoa, not drinking, and tries desperately not to tuck himself under the angel’s arm and press his face into his neck. It’s gotten worse lately. This. The loneliness. He’s had no distractions since Armageddon. No assignments from hell. Not even the pastime of looking for excuses to meet with Aziraphale, Romeo and Juliet style. He thinks the silence is charged. He can hardly tell. 

He looks up, a tad frantically, when Aziraphale shifts forward to set his cocoa down, half drained, then reaches out and takes Crowley’s full cup and sets it down next to his. Then, like from a dream, pulls him forward into his chest before leaning back himself so they are both laid across the couch. Crowley’s heart is a hummingbird in his chest, neck, wrists as Aziraphale continues to maneuver them so that Crowley’s back is snug to the back of the couch and his side is tucked in the corner. Crowley thinks he’s dying. Discorporating. Burning alive. Then, in a smooth movement, Aziraphale plasters himself to Crowley’s front so that Crowley’s head is laying against his soft chest and on top of his arm, and leans firmly against him. Solid. Safe. Crowley is frozen, afraid that a single movement might send Aziraphale running. He takes a shallow, shuddering breath, the first since Aziraphale reached out to him, and manages to croak out, “What’s going on?” As soon as he says it he clings to the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket, drowning in the flash of worry that he’ll stop, that he’ll think Crowley doesn’t like it and will stop. Aziraphale tentatively moves his hand up to his side, like he’s worried Crowley will reject the touch,  _ stupid angel _ . He’ll take whatever Aziraphale will give him. This is already much more than Crowley’s ever been allowed to have before.

“Is this… alright?” Crowley can feel the question breathed against his hair and shudders. His control is slipping.

“Yes.” He’s still croaking, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind as he rests his arm against his side properly now, not just his hand, and snakes it behind his back to pull him impossibly closer. 

“I’m sorry.” The confession is so soft Crowley isn’t sure he heard it right for a second.

“Why?”

Aziraphale’s stopped fidgeting, for once, and he’s holding Crowley like he knows he’ll break apart without Aziraphale’s arms there to stop the rapid spread of fissures running the length of his being. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry because I see you like this, and all I do is watch. Because I see you every time you get like this, and I leave you alone with it. Because I didn’t do this sooner.” There’s a pause as Aziraphale takes a shaky breath and continues, somehow softer than he already was, “I’m sorry because I’ve been too much of a coward to do it before.”

Before he knows it Crowley is shaking his head. His hair, grown down to his shoulders again since the end of Armageddon, is definitely being messed up against the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat, but he can’t seem to care. Aziraphale cares in his place and brings the hand around his back up to smooth it out and stop the movement. Crowley feels the fingers in his hair and something breaks deep inside of him, finally cracking under the pressure of this great, horrible thing in his chest. He’s shaking, then. Crying. He doesn’t even really know why and he’s sobbing into Aziraphale’s shoulder, still shaking his head as much as he’s able with Aziraphale’s hand still in his hair. He sucks in a gasping breath and chokes out, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m okay. Why are you sorry? I’m okay.” 

Somewhere in his mess of words Aziraphale has bent over him as much as he can in their reclined positions. Has blocked out what little light there is to block and surrounded him so completely Crowley isn’t sure there has ever been anything else. He will never come back from this. He’s lying through his teeth, he will never be okay again after feeling this. Aziraphale brings his leg up to drape over Crowley’s hip and holds him tighter as he shakes.

“It’s okay, I’m okay, I love you, it’s--” Crowley goes horribly silent. Oh God. Oh God in heaven please. “I… that is…” to his embarrassment all of his words seem to be trapped in the locked room of his voice box. They stretch and scratch at his throat but they’re trapped and they’ll probably die there with the rest of his repressed  _ “I love yous” _ . He tries to stay completely silent and still, but he’s still shaking with repressed sobs, and fear now, he’s shaking from both, and it’s horribly uncomfortable, and he’s letting out these little noises that really should just keep themselves to themselves, and all the while he clings tighter. He’s going to tear the seams of Aziraphale’s jacket.

Except that Aziraphale seems to be shaking too, and why? Crowley looks up in a haze to check on him with what little brain power he has left only to find his face screwed up in pain and soft tears dripping from the tip of his nose onto Crowley’s forehead. He lets go of Aziraphale’s coat and brings his arms up with much more effort than such a simple act should have taken to cradle Aziraphale’s face in his palms. He’s still shaking, and his palms are slightly clammy, and his fingertips are cold, and he’d take his hands away as soon as he noticed if it weren’t for the fact that Aziraphale was clutching his right hand to his face like he’d die without it, and Crowley could probably be shot in the chest right now and he wouldn’t pull his hands away to stop the bleeding. His fault. “I’m sorry,” he pushes out, voice wavering, hands pressed tight to Aziraphale’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he tries again when the first one just makes the angel suck in a breath that sounds far to painful for Crowley’s liking. 

Aziraphale’s eyes open then, shining and beautiful blue, and Crowley wipes his tears away with his thumbs, careful not to move his hands too much and… Aziraphale leans down and kisses him. It’s chaste, and only on his cheekbone, but. Aziraphale kisses him. And he keeps going, all across his cheeks, and Crowley realizes somewhere in the middle of this flurry of kisses that Aziraphale is kissing away his tears. Which when he realizes this just causes more tears to fall. He’s letting out small sobs on every breath, sobs that are starting to turn into garbled, _ “I love you, I love you, I love yous” _ and trying his hardest to burrow as far into Aziraphale as he can. He wants to be surrounded by his solid weight, wants the realness of it to press into him until it replaces the air in his lungs with dizzying togetherness. Aziraphale is trying to keep up with his movement, trying to reach down to keep kissing his cheeks, and Crowley can’t believe he’s doing this after all these years of waiting for a kiss, but he just wants to hide and he can’t do that while keeping his face free for kisses.

It’s only when he’s sequestered away in the warm, soft cave between Aziraphale’s arms that his breathing starts to even out, that he starts to feel less like dying, and if it weren’t for the terror of his truth being laid bare after all these years of silence he might have fallen asleep. He hopes Aziraphale can forgive him this. Can forget he ever said anything. Hopes they can go back to what they had before. He thinks he should say so, if he can find the energy for it, but before he can Aziraphale speaks first. His voice sounds like its been dragged over gravel and shoved in a blender, but he says, “I love you too,” and Crowley can’t breathe. The air around him isn’t nearly enough to sustain him and, and.

Aziraphale notices right away, of course. Notices the returned gasping, feels Crowley’s neck arch against his chest as he tries to open his throat so that it might take in more air. Crowley knows he’s noticed because he starts to pull back, tries to give him room, and it’s worse, it’s worse, it’s worse without him. He reaches out, eyes squeezed shut, finds Aziraphale’s hand, brings it up to his throat and lays it over his windpipe and holds it there. He lays still then, they both do, and it works. His throat opens in increments under his touch. He opens his eyes back up and is met immediately by Aziraphale’s concerned face. He looks like his voice sounds, a bit, and Crowley wants to smooth it away but he’s too busy processing. “You, you do?”

Aziraphale lets loose what might be a choked laugh and nods. “I love you,” he repeats, like he’s afraid Crowley might actually die if he says it again but he can’t quite help it. “I love you.” He’s grinning now, they both are, and they must look like idiots, tear stained and flushed, but neither of them really care. 

“I love you,” Crowley parrots back to him. Aziraphale laughs for real this time and gathers Crowley up again, still underneath him, and Crowley does his best imitation of an octopus and wraps him right up in return with his legs and his arms and it feels like he’s going to burst open, but in a good way this time. His chest is quivering with it, and his hummingbird heart is fluttering so fast it might give out and die, but it’s all fine, it’s all wonderful. He wonders if maybe they’ve been waiting together. If maybe Aziraphale saw his love painted so loudly over his features and decided to wait with him. They’re grasping at each other, like they might become one being if they just tug hard enough, and there’s a sharpness to their edges that there wasn’t before when there was so much crying involved. A desperation. A  _ closer, closer, come closer, I missed you. _

Their lips meet like this, in a hard press of joy and emotion. Without thought, a hopeful “Never leave me,” escapes Crowley’s lips, but before he even has the chance to start to worry Aziraphale is nodding and laughing and crying again, just a bit, and then they both are, and their lips meet again, and again, and Crowley wants to stay like this forever. He wants to climb into Aziraphale’s chest and never emerge, and he most definitely would, he’d find a way, if it weren’t for all of the outside of the angel he’d have to give up on then. His malleable hips and plush stomach. The soft wisps of his hair and the broad shoulders, both of which Crowley finds himself clutching in turns, desperately trying to stay tethered to the earth. He’s having a hard time focusing on anything but Aziraphale’s lips, the hot press and slide of them. Aziraphale nips at his lower lip, smooths over it with his tongue in apology, and sucks at it slightly for good measure, making Crowley groan deep in his chest. Aziraphale absolutely pillages his mouth after that. He forces his way in and licks his way deeper than Crowley assumed would even be comfortable whenever he’d contemplated kissing. He was very wrong. 

If he had the brainpower for it, Crowley would have felt utterly useless under this barrage of lips and hands, able to do nothing but hang on for the ride and leave himself open and pliant to Aziraphale’s rough ministrations, but such thoughts had been out of his capacity for a long while now and didn’t seem to be returning any time soon. Hadn’t even bothered to send a postcard. Instead, he’s making needy little whines in the back of his throat that he doesn’t even have the capacity to be embarrassed about and is tugging at the sleeves of Aziraphale’s coat. He manages to break away for a moment, enough for a few breaths and a rushed, “Off, off, take it off,” before his mouth is claimed again by Aziraphale’s commanding lips. He continues tugging until Aziraphale rips himself away and sits up on Crowley’s hips and  _ oh, Someone, he hadn’t even made a conscious decision to make an effort yet here he is, he can feel it, pulsing between his legs, and it looks like Aziraphale isn’t far behind if the bulge in his trousers is any indicator,  _ and really, were so many layers necessary? Aziraphale tries to dip back down once he’s divested himself of his jacket but Crowley stops him with a hand on his chest, desperately tugging at the buttons of his vest. 

Evidently, Aziraphale grows impatient with this as the next second he snaps his fingers and both of them are bare from the waist up. This wasn’t how Crowley envisioned this going at all. In his mind, he unbuttons Aziraphale’s shirt slowly, from the bottom up, kissing each inch of new skin as it’s revealed, sucking at mouthfuls of him until he’s littered with dark splotches from underbelly to sternum. In his mind, Crowley does this right, and slowly, and Aziraphale has no choice but to feel how much he’s loved. In reality Aziraphale is kissing and kissing and kissing him and their skin is bare and pressed up against each other and yes, okay, maybe there’s more than one version of a right way to do things. He’s so overwhelmed he might start crying  _ again _ , but if Aziraphale pulls away a single inch he’ll implode so he squeezes his eyes shut tight and lets Aziraphale take and take.

They’re molded together, all of Aziraphale’s softness filling in the spaces of Crowley’s chest, and he’s never felt so known in all of his life. There isn’t an inch of him that doesn’t feel encompassed by his warmth. So when Aziraphale’s hand slips beneath his waistband, searching, Crowley arches up into him, desperate to maintain every point of contact. Crowley is trembling as Aziraphale slips his fingers between his folds, wet and dripping with fluid, and he’s fluttering around Aziraphale’s fingers, trying to open for him, trying to take in more of him, begging with every atom for  _ more, more, please _ . When Aziraphale sweeps up with his thumb towards his clit he gives a series of sharp jerks and clenches his thighs around Aziraphale’s hand. He’s gasping and writhing as he wrenches out, “Angel, angel stop, please, you have to stop.”

Aziraphale pulls back with such haste Crowley winces at the sudden emptiness. “I’m sorry, oh, I’m sorry, dearest, I should have asked, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Crowley lets out a choked laugh and shakes his head, cutting Aziraphale off, “No, no love, you were perfect, I just didn’t want to come. Was so close, still am. Wanted to come with you inside of me. Please. If that’s okay.” 

Aziraphale’s expression relaxes and a soft smile overtakes his face. “Of course, oh, of course, darling. Anything.” With that he slides down Crowley’s legs and starts tugging at his skinny jeans--they slip off easily only because neither of them are really putting much stock in obstacles right now and the universe, as always, is inclined to agree. His underwear comes next, then his socks are removed with efficiency and he’s completely bare beneath Aziraphale’s gaze. Crowley does his best not to squirm as Aziraphale looks his fill and mostly succeeds, but his blush betrays him, spreading from his face, down his neck and over his chest until he fancies he looks a bit like a lobster. Aziraphale must really like lobsters with the way he’s looking at Crowley right now. Aesthetically, not just to eat, although he does like to eat lobster an awful lot, and he does look like he might devour Crowley at any moment. Crowley shifts again, “So are you just going to look, or…?”

This seems to shake Aziraphale free of his reverie and he blinks as he comes back to the same plane of existence where Crowley is waiting for him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so distracted. It’s just…” Crowley is squirming in apprehension under Aziraphale’s gaze and Aziraphale rests his warm palm over Crowley’s stomach to quiet him. “You’re so beautiful.”

Crowley flushes a deeper red, if that’s possible, and looks away. “‘S not like you haven’t seen me before.”

“No,” Aziraphale agrees, “but this is the first time I’ve really been allowed to look.”

“Ah.” Crowley looks even more determinedly at the far wall, then allows himself a quick glance up to Aziraphale’s face. He tries for nonchalance, “It’s getting lonely down here, angel.”

“Of course, of course, just let me--” Aziraphale strips proficiently, seemingly unaware of the demon short-circuiting as he watches, and climbs back on top of Crowley. All of this happens in a rather short amount of time, and Crowley doesn’t understand where this composure Aziraphale seems to have is even coming from. Aziraphale settles himself on top of Crowley with a wiggle, something so very characteristic of him that Crowley feels fireworks of joy going off inside of his skull, his chest. The fireworks are putting his hummingbird in serious danger of being singed. He’s also struggling to breathe at the moment. Aziraphale’s cock, flushed, cut, and tilted slightly to the left, is resting solidly on his stomach. His balls are sitting directly on top of his pelvis. His thighs are spread around his sides, encompassing him, holding him, and Crowley  _ can’t even see _ . Not enough air, his eyes aren’t cooperating. He thinks he’s gone a bit cross eyed but he can’t tell, and he desperately forces his vision back into focus. He can’t miss a second of this. 

He wants Aziraphale between his thighs, wants him  _ right now, _ wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything. He thinks he might come at the slightest brush but he’s willing to risk it. “Come, come here, come here,” He manages to gasp. He’s pushing, pulling, shoving Aziraphale where he wants him, and Aziraphale is laughing, and Crowley is smiling too, and giggling, just a little, the rest of him is a white out of lust and need, and finally,  _ finally,  _ Aziraphale is there. Laying on top of him, his full weight pushing Crowley into the couch cushions mercilessly. Cradled between his legs and pulled closer, ever closer, by insisting calves and heels and hands. Aziraphale is still laughing when Crowley captures his lips in his own.

From there it devolves into an intense, clutching, slide of lips and bodies and Crowley is breaking away when he can, “Inside me, inside, now, come on,” and Aziraphale is gripping his cock by the base, pushing in slowly, stopping and starting, giving Crowley time to adjust. Crowley moans and throws his head back and forth, “Faster, angel, please, come on, you can go faster, it doesn’t hurt.” At his encouragement Aziraphale lets himself bottom out with a long, slow slide. They stay like that for a moment, both afraid of coming, both reveling in the closeness. Crowley clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulders, his legs wrapped around his ass, constricting, keeping him there. Crowley speaks up again, “Think we could stay like this?”

Aziraphale lets out a huff of distracted laughter, “I think we’ll have to move eventually.”

“Come on, just for a few hundred years?” Aziraphale is grinning, his face is tucked into Crowley’s neck, he can feel him grinning, “No?”

Aziraphale drags his nose up Crowley’s neck until his mouth is hovering over Crowley’s ear and speaks in a voice far too prim and put together for the circumstances, “The way I see it, we could do one of two things. Either I miracle myself hard forever and we stay just like this until we’re through,” Crowley makes a noise of protest, “or for forever, I suppose, if you insist,” his suggestion is rewarded with a hum of satisfaction, “or we could finish up here and start all over again.” Crowley groans low in his throat at the thought. He knows Aziraphale is just teasing but that doesn’t quell the visceral reaction of need that rushes through him as he thinks of spending the rest of eternity with his angel, close like this. 

“Sssecond one” he hisses, losing control of his tongue for a moment. 

Aziraphale sounds very pleased with himself at Crowley’s hiss, “Well, if you insist.” With that he pulls out and slams back in, making Crowley’s back arch like he’s been shocked with a live wire. Crowley manages an amused thought,  _ of course he needed a snappy one liner, _ and a rush of affection before he’s lost again. Aziraphale takes him hard, fast, and deep, driving into Crowley’s center will all the stamina of an ethereal being built for war. Crowley’s moaning uncontrollably now, and Aziraphale is letting out punched out breaths with every thrust. Aziraphale props himself on one arm and reaches between them to rub against Crowley’s clit, driving his moans higher and louder until he’s making no noise at all, overwhelmed by the intensity of the feeling.  _ Everywhere, it’s everywhere, Aziraphale is everywhere. In every pore and crevice, between his ribs and under his tongue and deep in his belly where everything is tight and quivering and,  _ “Oh, oh, oh my God, Aziraphale!” Crowley means to shout, he thinks, but he can’t find the air to and it’s more of a forced whisper as he comes in shock waves of pleasure, Aziraphale working him through it and continuing to pound into him ruthlessly.

When Crowley is finished he’s terribly oversensitive but he lays back and takes it, hugging Aziraphale to his chest gently. He tucks Aziraphale’s face into his neck and holds him close and speaks to him softly as he finishes, “Come on, come for me love. That’s it, you’re doing so well. Made me feel so good. Let me see you now, it’s my turn.” Aziraphale comes with a broken cry, pumping in and out of Crowley’s aching cunt with abandon, before finally going still and collapsing on top of him. Crowley never wants to move, not ever, so when Aziraphale moves to pull out Crowley lets him leave with a cry of dismay. 

Aziraphale is close to him instantly, “I’m not gone, dearest, I’m not leaving. I’m never leaving, remember? Don’t you worry now.” As Aziraphale comforts Crowley he runs his fingers firmly though his crimson hair, warm with sweat at the roots, and tucks one arm under his torso to press them together. They’re slippery with sweat and Crowley knows he’ll regret not miracling away Aziraphale’s come a little later, but at present he can’t bear to have anything change, anything at all. He clings to Aziraphale wantonly and urges him to let his full weight rest over him once again. Crowley doesn’t know how long they’re laying there before Aziraphale is pulling himself up Crowley’s body with soothing little noises and repositioning them. Crowley goes, limp as a rag doll, lets himself be tucked up into Aziraphale’s arms and it’s even better, somehow,  _ how is it better? How can this possibly get any better?  _ But this way Aziraphale is holding Crowley instead of the other way around, and Crowley is certain nothing so vitally important has happened in all the history of the world, not since the creation of oxygen, surely. 

They fall asleep like that, eventually, skin against skin. Crowley is not sure of much, not anymore, not since Armageddon when everything came crashing down around his ears, but thinks he’s sure of Aziraphale. Thinks he believes him when he says I love you. Thinks that he could not have chosen gentler hands to soothe the frantic beating of his hummingbird heart, and he lets himself rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever posted. Please be kind!
> 
> Update! I'm on Tumblr now! Come check me out if you like! My name is baby-holdmyflower.


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